The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  “Come on!” said Gisella. “Move it! What are you waiting for?”

  I sobered up immediately. I was really drunk, but not so drunk as to be unaware of the danger threatening me. “I don’t want to,” I said. And I stood up.

  Astarita got up, too, and seizing me by one arm tried to drag me toward the door. The other two began to egg him on again. “Go on, Astarita!” they urged.

  Astarita half dragged me as far as the door, although I struggled. Then I freed myself with a sudden jerk and ran to the door that led out onto the stairway. But Gisella was quicker than I. “No, you don’t, sweetie!” she cried. She leaped up from Riccardo’s knees and ran over to lock the door, before I could get there, then took the key out.

  “I don’t want to,” I repeated, terrified, standing beside the table.

  “What harm can it do you?” asked Riccardo.

  “Idiot!” said Gisella harshly, pushing me toward Astarita. “Such a fuss — go along, now.”

  I realized that despite her cruelty and insistence Gisella did not understand what she was doing. The plot she had laid for me must have seemed to her most delightfully clever and entertaining. I was also amazed at the gay indifference of Riccardo, whom I knew to be kindly and incapable of doing anything he thought malicious.

  “I don’t want to,” I repeated again.

  “Why not?” asked Riccardo. “What’s wrong with it.”

  Gisella went on pushing me eagerly and excitedly.

  “I didn’t think you were so silly,” she said. “Go on, Adriana, what are you waiting for?”

  Up until now Astarita had not said a word; he stood motionless by the bedroom door, gazing at me. Then I saw him open his mouth as if to speak. “Come on,” he said, speaking slowly and thickly, as though the words had a tricky consistency and he found it difficult to get them out. “Otherwise I’ll tell Gino you came out with us today and let me make love to you.”

  I understood at once that he really would carry out his threat. You may well doubt words themselves, but there is often no mistaking the tone of voice in which they are uttered. He would certainly have told Gino, and that would have meant the end for me before I had really begun. Thinking it over today, I suppose I could have withstood him. If I had shouted, if I had struggled violently, I would have persuaded him that his blackmailing was as ineffective as his revenge. But perhaps it would have been no good, because his desire for me was stronger than my disgust. At the time, of course, I felt entirely overcome, and thought more of avoiding a scandal than of opposing him. I found myself plunged into this situation quite unprepared for it, with my mind full of plans for the future, which I desired to carry out at all costs. What happened to me at this time, in such a crude way, must, I think, happen to all those who have as simple, legitimate, innocent ambitions as I had. The world gets hold of us through our ambitions and sooner or later forces us to pay a high and painful price, and only outcasts and people who have renounced everything can ever hope to escape this payment

  But at the very moment that I accepted my fate, I experienced a sharp and lucid sensation of pain. A flash of intuition seemed to light up the whole future path of my life, as a rule so dark and tortuous, and reveal it straight and clear before my eyes, showing me in that single moment what I would lose in exchange for Astarita’s silence. My eyes filled with tears and I began to cry, putting my arm over my face. I realized I was weeping from utter resignation and not in rebellion, and that, in fact, my legs were carrying me toward Astarita in the midst of my tears. Gisella pushed me by the arm, repeating, “What are you crying for? Anyone would think it was the first time!” I heard Riccardo laugh; and I felt, without seeing him, that Astarita’s eyes were upon me as I came slowly toward him in tears. Then I felt him put an arm around my waist and the door of the room closed behind me.

  I did not want to see anything, even feeling seemed too much. And so I kept my arm obstinately across my eyes, although Astarita tried to draw it away. I suppose he wanted to behave like all lovers on such occasions, that is, to win me over gradually and almost unconsciously to his desires. But my obstinate refusal to take my arm away from my face obliged him to be more brutal and hurried than he wished. So, after he had made me sit on the edge of the bed and had tried in vain to coax me with caresses, he pushed me back against the cushions and threw himself on me. My whole body from the waist down was as heavy and inert as lead, and no embrace was ever accepted with greater submission and with less participation. But I stopped crying almost immediately, and as soon as he lay breathless on my breast, I removed my arm from my face and stared into the darkness.

  I am convinced that at that moment Astarita loved me as much as a man can love a woman, and far more than Gino did. I remember that he could not stop running his hand again and again over my forehead and cheeks with a convulsive, passionate movement, trembling all over and murmuring words of love. But my eyes were dry and wide open, and my head, cleared now of the wine fumes, was filled with an icy, eddying clarity. I let Astarita caress me and talk to me while I followed my own thoughts. Once more I saw my own bedroom, as I had arranged it, with the new furniture I had not quite finished paying for, and felt a kind of bitter consolation. I told myself that now nothing could prevent my marrying and living the kind of life I wanted. But at the same time I felt my spirit was entirely changed and that a new certainty and decision had replaced my once fresh and ingenuous hopes. I suddenly felt much stronger, although it was a tragic strength, and shorn of love.

  “It’s time to go back into the other room,” I said at last, speaking for the first time since we had entered the bedroom.

  “Are you mad at me?” he immediately asked in a low voice.

  “No.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “No.”

  “I love you so much,” he murmured. And began once more tempestuously to cover my face and neck with rapid, passionate kisses. I let him have his way and then said, “Yes, but we must go.”

  “You’re right,” he answered. He broke away from me and began, as far as I could tell, to get dressed in the dark. I tidied myself as best I could, got up, and turned on the light over the bed. In that yellow light the room looked just as I had imagined from its stuffy, lavender-scented smell: the ceiling was low, the beams were whitewashed, the walls covered with French wallpaper, the furniture old and heavy. A marble-topped washstand stood in one corner and on it two jugs and basins with a green-and-pink flower pattern, and a large mirror in a gold frame. I walked over to the washstand, poured a little water into the basin and, dipping the end of the towel in it, I sponged my lips, which Astarita had bruised with his kisses, and my eyes, still red from crying. The mirror threw back from its scratched and coruscated surface a painful image of myself, and for a moment I looked at it spellbound, my heart filled with pity and wonder. Then I pulled myself together, tidied my hair with my hands to the best of my ability and turned toward Astarita. He was waiting for me by the door and as soon as he saw that I was ready, he opened it, avoiding my eyes and keeping his back turned to me. I switched off the light and followed him.

  We were greeted cheerfully by Gisella and Riccardo, who had been carrying on in the same gay, careless manner as when we had left them. They had failed to understand how upset I had been before, and now were just as incapable of understanding my present serenity.

  “Well you’re quite the little innocent! You didn’t want to, didn’t want to, but as far as I can see you settled down to it very soon and very well,” Gisella cried out. “Anyway, if you enjoyed it, good for you.… But it wasn’t worth while making such a fuss about it.”

  I looked at her; it seemed to me extraordinarily unfair that she, who had urged me to yield and had even held my arms so that Astarita could kiss me more easily, should now be the one to reproach me for my complacency.

  “You aren’t very logical, Gisella,” remarked Riccardo with his rough common sense. “First you persuade her and now you seem to be telling her she shouldn’t
have done it.”

  “Of course,” replied Gisella harshly, “if she didn’t want to, she’s been very wrong. If I didn’t want to myself, nothing, not even force, could make me. But she wanted to,” she added, looking at me in a disgusted and dissatisfied way. “She wanted to. And how! I saw them in the car while we were coming to Viterbo. So she shouldn’t have made such a fuss, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I did not utter a word, being lost in admiration at the refinement of her pitiless and unwitting cruelty. Astarita came near and clumsily tried to take my hand, but I pushed him away and went to sit down at the end of the table. “Look at Astarita!” exclaimed Riccardo. “He looks as if he’s just come away from a funeral!”

  As a matter of fact, Astarita, with all his gloom and solemnity, seemed to understand me better than the others did. “You make a joke of everything,” he said.

  “Well, do you think we ought to burst into tears?” cried Gisella. “Now you two just sit and wait and be patient, like we did. It’s our turn now. Come on, Riccardo!”

  “Be careful,” said Riccardo, getting up to follow her. He was obviously drunk and did not know himself what we had to be careful about.

  “Come on, let’s go!”

  So they left the room, and Astarita and I were alone. I sat at one end of the table and he at the other. A ray of sunshine came in through the window and shone brightly on the untidy crockery, the fruit parings, half-empty glasses and dirty knives and forks. But Astarita’s expression remained distressed and overcast, although the sun was shining full on his face. His desire had been appeased, but all the same the look of anguished intensity he had displayed at the beginning of our relationship was still present in his eyes. I felt sorry for him then, despite the harm he had done me. I realized he had been wretched before having me, and now, when it was over, he was no less wretched. He had suffered before because he had wanted me; he suffered now because I did not return his love. But pity is love’s worst enemy; if I had hated him, he might have hoped that one day I would come to love him. But I did not hate him and since, as I have said, I felt sorry for him, I was sure I would never feel anything more toward him than an unwelcoming and frigid disgust.

  We sat there a long time in the sunny room, waiting for Gisella and Riccardo to return. Astarita chain-smoked and he looked at me all the time through the clouds of smoke that enveloped him, with the eloquent gaze of a man who wants to say something but does not dare. I was sitting sideways at the table, with my legs crossed; the only desire in my heart was to get away. I did not feel tired, or ashamed of myself; if I wanted anything at all, it was to be alone and think over what had happened, at my leisure. This longing I had to be alone was side-tracked every now and again by silly things I noticed — the pearl in Astarita’s tiepin, the pattern on the wallpaper, a fly walking around the edge of a glass, a little drop of tomato sauce that had splashed onto my blouse while I was eating, and I was annoyed with myself at being unable to think of anything more important. But this vacuity was of some use when Astarita, after a long silence, overcame his shyness and asked me, in a choking voice, “What are you thinking about?” I thought for a moment and then said simply, “One of my nails is broken and I can’t think when or how I did it.” It was true. But he looked at me bitterly and incredulously and from that moment definitely gave up any further attempt to talk to me.

  At last, in God’s good time, Gisella and Riccardo came back, looking a little worn out, but as cheerful and easygoing as before. They were surprised to find us so silent and solemn, but it was late now and lovemaking had made them calmer; it had quite a different effect upon them from what it had on Astarita. Gisella had even become affectionate to me, and no longer showed the cruelty and excitement she had before and after Astarita’s blackmailing coup. I found myself almost believing his blackmail had contributed a new kind of sensual thrill to her relationship with Riccardo. She put her arm around my waist as we went downstairs. “Why are you making that face?” she murmured. “If you’re worried about Gino, don’t be — neither Riccardo nor I will talk to anyone about it.”

  “I’m tired,” I lied. I was incapable of sulking, and her arm around my waist was enough to make my resentment fade.

  “So am I,” she answered. “I had the wind blowing in my face all the way here.” A moment after, as we waited on the doorstep of the restaurant while the two men went toward the car, she spoke again.

  “You aren’t mad at me because of what happened?”

  “Not at all,” I answered. “What’s it got to do with you?” Having got out of her little plot all the different kinds of satisfaction she could, she also wanted to be sure that I was not annoyed with her. I felt I understood her only too well. And for this reason, because I was afraid she might realize I understood her and be angry, I was anxious to dispel all her doubts and to make a show of affection toward her. I turned to her and kissed her on the cheek, saying, “Why should I be mad at you? You always said I ought to give up Gino and go with Astarita.”

  “That’s it,” she agreed emphatically. “I still think so. But I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me.”

  She seemed anxious; and I, as if by some curious infection, was even more anxious than she was herself, for fear she might discover what I really felt.

  “Obviously you don’t really know me,” I answered simply. “I know you want me to leave Gino because you’re fond of me and you’re sorry I don’t do the best I can for myself. I might even say,” I added, telling one more lie, “that perhaps you’re right.”

  She was evidently satisfied and taking me by my arm said in conversational, but at the same time measured and confidential, tones, “You must understand what I mean. Astarita or anyone else would do — anyone but Gino! If you knew how it upsets me to see a beautiful girl like you throwing herself away! Ask Riccardo. I keep on at him all day long about you.” She was chatting to me now without any embarrassment, as she usually did, and I was careful to agree with whatever she said. And so we reached the car. We took the places we had coming, and the car started up.

  None of us spoke during the return journey. Astarita went on gazing at me, but with a look of humiliation rather than of desire. By now his gaze caused me no embarrassment and I felt no wish, as I had coming, to speak to him or to be pleasant. I breathed in the air that blew on my face from the open window and automatically counted the milestones that measured the distance from Rome. At a certain moment I felt Astarita’s hand brush against mine and noticed he was trying to put something into it, a piece of paper, perhaps. I imagined that he had scribbled something to me because he did not dare to address me, but when I glanced down I saw that it was a banknote folded in four.

  He looked at me fixedly while he tried to make me close my fingers over the note, and for a moment I was tempted to throw it in his face. But at the same time it occurred to me that such behavior would have been quite insincere, inspired by a spirit of imitation rather than by a deep impulse coming from the heart. The feeling I experienced at that moment bewildered me and, no matter how or when I have received money from men since, I have never again experienced it so clearly and so intensely. It was a feeling of complicity and sensual conspiracy such as none of Astarita’s caresses in the restaurant bedroom had been able to rouse in me. It was a feeling of inevitable subjection that showed me in a flash an aspect of my own nature I had ignored until then. I knew, of course, that I ought to refuse the money, but at the same time I wanted to accept. And not so much from greed, as from the new kind of pleasure that this offering had afforded me.

  Although I had decided to accept it, I made a movement as if my intention were to push back the note; I did this from instinct, with no shadow of calculation. Astarita insisted, still gazing into my eyes, and then I slipped the note from my right hand into my left. I felt strangely thrilled, my face was burning and my breathing labored. If Astarita had been capable of guessing my feelings at that moment, he might have imagined I loved him. Nothing could have been further f
rom the truth; it was only the money and the way it was earned and the way it was given me that filled my mind. I felt Astarita take my hand and I let him kiss it, then pulled it away. We did not look at one another again until we reached Rome.

  Once back in town, we parted from each other almost as if we had been fugitives, as if each of us knew we had committed some crime and only wanted to get away and hide. As a matter of fact, something very like a crime had been committed that day, by all of us — by Riccardo through stupidity, by Gisella through envy, by Astarita through lust, and by me through inexperience. Gisella made a date with me for the following day to go and pose, Riccardo said good-night, Astarita could only press my hand silently, still as earnest and worried as ever. They took me as far as my own door. Despite my tiredness and remorse, I remember I could not help a feeling of satisfied vanity as I got out of the magnificent car at my own street door, under the very eyes of the family of the railwayman, our neighbors, who were looking out of their window.

  I went and shut myself up in my own room, and the first thing I did was to look at the money. I found that there was not one, but three notes of a thousand lire each, and for a moment I felt almost happy as I sat on the edge of the bed. The money would not only pay the rest of the installments on the furniture, but would be enough for me to buy one or two other things I needed. I had never had so much money in my life before, and I could not stop fingering the notes and staring at them. My poverty made the sight of them not only delightful but almost incredible. I had to keep on looking longingly at these notes, as I had at my pieces of furniture, in order to convince myself that they really belonged to me.

  5

  MY LONG NIGHT’S DEEP SLEEP had obliterated, or so I thought, even the memory of my Viterbo adventure. Next day I awoke, my usual placid self, determined to persist in doing all I could to attain a normal family life. Gisella, whom I saw that morning, made no allusion to the trip, either out of remorse for what she had done or well-advised tact, and I was grateful to her for this. But I was becoming anxious about my next meeting with Gino. Although I was sure that I was not at all guilty, I knew that I would have to lie to him and I felt displeased at having to do this. I was not even sure whether I would be capable of doing it, because it would be the first time that I had not been absolutely straightforward with him. Of course, I had not told him that I had been seeing Gisella; my motives in this case had been so innocent that I had not even considered it a lie, but, rather, a resort to which I had been driven by his unreasonable dislike of her.